Sermon for Easter Six Year C May 1, 2016

• Acts 16:9-1
• Revelation 21:10, 22-22:5
• John 5:1-9
• Psalm 67

Let us pray.

Circle us, Lord

Circle this world with the joy of your Salvation

Where there is sickness and disease bring healing

Where there is hunger and despair bring hope

Where there is torture and oppression bring release

Lord of creation, Lord of Salvation

Circle this world with the light of your presence. Amen.
(Celtic Daily Prayer 2)

Today's Gospel story of the man at Bethesda Pool offers us some interesting thoughts about healing. First, there’s that famous question that Jesus asks, “Do you want to be healed?” Then there’s the response of the lame man himself, and, oh, let’s not forget what follows when the Pharisees find out that Jesus healed someone on the Sabbath, and then told him to carry his bed—an action forbidden by the Law. What I love about Gospel stories like this one is that such rich possibilities exist for what God wants us to learn. And this passage is no different.

John’s story begins by telling us what the setting was like. He was laying the scene when he tells us, there were five porticoes, and the cripples were here, the lame here, and the blind over there. Archeologists, who have done work on this site, tell us the Pool of Bethesda was used to supply water to the Temple. They have also discovered that in Jesus’ time, there was an intermittent spring there. At times water is released in surges from hidden reservoirs in the hills around the city, causing these springs to rise and fall suddenly, thus appearing to be “stirred up” as verse seven tells us.

          So now, I’d like to tell you a story about visiting one of those pools with an intermittent spring. In 1978, I had the privilege of taking my first overseas trip. Those who know me well, realize that was the point where I got hooked on traveling in a big way. While in Jerusalem, my Old Testament professor took us on a tour of Hezekiah’s water tunnel and the Pool of Siloam. This site also has an intermittent spring, and when one goes through at certain times of the day, the water may be up to one’s ankles, but at other times it may be up to a person’s waist. Not satisfied with one trip through the tunnel, however, another student, John, and I decided to go through the tunnel again later in the day. The level of water had risen since our morning tour, and we did a little more than wade as we made our way through knee-deep water to the other end of the tunnel.

As we entered the tunnel, a young Palestinian offered to lead us through, and my cautious nature immediately kicked in—especially when he shut the gate behind us. I tried to make it clear that we were capable of going on this journey ourselves. About half way through the dark tunnel, I felt the hair rise on the back of my neck, and I whispered to John to hide his money. I took mine and stuffed it in my camera bag, behind my camera. John stuffed his in another place they were not likely to look. Sure enough as we got to the Pool of Siloam at the end of the tunnel, there was a larger number of young Palestinian men who wanted all of our money to unlock the gates and let us out of the tunnel.

So, the lame man in today’s Gospel wanted help getting into the pool of Bethesda, while we were trying to figure out how to get OUT of a pool. Fortunately, John and I made a good case for being poor American college students showing the men our empty wallets and pockets. Finally, they opened the gate and allowed us to leave the Pool of Siloam and go on our way.

John and I used our wits to get out of a tough situation, but did you notice how the lame man responded? He claimed he had no one to help him. When Jesus challenges him by asking if he wants to be healed, the lame man says, “I have no one to help me into the waters when they are troubled.” Like so many us, the lame man was not sure about how much he really wanted God’s power to change him. He could not offer Jesus a direct answer, but rather only gave excuses. Instead of saying “Yes, I want to be healed,” he explains why he hasn’t been healed. He accepts no responsibility for his circumstances.

When my daughter Claire was small, she had a favorite phrase that I heard over and over. When she was trying to figure something out, instead of accepting help, she would say rather firmly, “My do it!” Claire had a deep sense even as a child of what she wanted and she never really had a habit of making excuses. Like Little Claire, I would rather do it myself than give up the control I think I have.

But also, like Claire, I have learned that I have to allow God to direct my journey, especially when God challenges me to make changes for my healing and growth. When it comes to living the Resurrected Life—one in which we are healed—we have to do the hard work of facing painful situations, uncovering bitterness, and admitting to deep, resentful anger. Healing comes when we are broken within and need God like we’ve never needed God before. We have to face our fears and ask God to take the shame that causes our lack of self-acceptance away.

If we unpack Jesus’ question a bit more, I think we find that Jesus, too, is digging deeper by asking the lame man if he wants to be healed. All of us are wounded by life’s vagaries, some of us have struggled with physical pain, some with emotional pain, some with the pain of spiritual doubts, and some of us have even suffered at the hands of those who were supposed to love and protect us. That wounding can cause us to build walls and withdraw into ourselves. We believe there is no hope for us. And because our wounds impact our sense of hope, many of us live blind, lame and paralyzed lives—we have been lame in terms of being stuck in one place for a long time and paralyzed from doing anything about our pitiful condition.

Perhaps the lame man’s mind was already racing with difficult questions as he looked ahead to his new life. He might have thought, “How will I earn a living? Do I really want things to change that much? What will I have to give up? How will I know who I am?”

          Jesus wants to know from the lame man and from us if we can handle the changes that will become a regular part of our lives once we enter the healing process. Jesus asks each of us “Are you ready to leave behind all of the excuses; are you really ready to change?”

In addition to Jesus’ primary question, three more questions might help us know if we are ready to experience healing. The first is "Are you ready for the sacrifice of being in community or starting a relationship of deep sharing, or would you rather wallow in the self-pity of being alone?"

If we are honest about struggle, joy, and where God works, in short, if we are vulnerable, and enter into community, the person we share with will say, “Oh, me too.” That’s the point in which the kingdom of God breaks through on earth.

Secondly, "Are we willing to change our lifestyle habits, or will it take too much energy to quit our unhealthy routines?" Do we, in fact, want to hang on to that mat, the one item that makes our present bad situation comfortable?

And finally, "Do we really want to forgive that person who has harmed us and move on, or is it easier to distance ourselves from the pain they once caused us by stuffing our emotions inside?"

If we turn to Jesus to ask for healing in a particular area of our lives, we must be prepared to do the work it takes to accept the blessing of healing. That might mean doing intense work on the primary cause of anger or sadness resulting from a past hurt. That might mean receiving prayers for healing. It might mean we have to choose to do some forgiving, which often feels like an impossible act to accomplish.

In his song, “Forgiveness,” Matthew West sings,

“It will clear the bitterness away
It can even set a prisoner free 
There is no end to what its power can do 
So let it go and be amazed
by what you see through eyes of grace 
The prisoner that it really frees is you: forgiveness."

          And once we have begun to experience that freedom, we then have the opportunity and commission to become compassionate yet wounded healers. No one explains this idea better than Henri Nouwen in his book Wounded Healer, “Through compassion it is possible to recognize that the craving for love that people feel resides also in our own hearts... Through compassion we also sense our hope for forgiveness in our friends' eyes… For a compassionate person nothing human is alien: no joy and no sorrow, no way of living and no way of dying.”  

What this means for us is that we begin to reach out to others. We become people who trust and surrender—not people who avoid and resist. We take Jesus’ work to the streets where we are commissioned to clothe the naked, look after the sick, and visit those in prison. Previously, we may have been unable to genuinely serve because of our lack of connection, or the isolation and rejection of our own selves. So, let us close now with this question that Jesus asks each one of us: "In some area of your life, do you want to be healed?" If you say, "Yes," he will say, "Then stand up, take up your bed, and walk."

Sermon for Advent IV: The Blessings and Challenges of God’s Call

     This Gospel account of Mary’s Visitation to her cousin Elisabeth has to be

on my Top Ten List of favorite stories in sacred scripture. Anyone who has had a

best friend, or a “BFF” as my high school students say, has an idea of how the two

women felt when they met on this occasion. My best friend’s name is Libby, and I

met her when I was a junior in college. We became roommates my senior year, and

have never lost touch with each other since that time over thirty years ago. I was

the Eucharistic Minister at her wedding; she was my matron of honor.  Libby is

godmother to my two children; I was present when her mom was dying at Mary

Black Hospital in Spartanburg. Today, we have each other on the “short chain” of

text messaging because the one place we are very different is that she does not use

technology. When I get to visit Libby in Tennessee, I understand how wonderful it

must have been for Mary to lay eyes on Elisabeth, a cousin as well as a kindred

spirit. Of all people, Elisabeth would sympathize with what was happening to

Mary.  Elisabeth understood this business of being called by God—both the

blessings and the challenges that come with God’s call. Being understood by

someone else is an immeasurable blessing.

     In addition to the deep understanding that Elisabeth and Mary share with

each other and the pregnancies for which they are known, Mary and Elisabeth are

women of promise. Each woman carries a special child, and those children are part

of the promise of God to God’s people. In the Old Testament reading, we heard,

“And they shall live secure, for now he shall be great to the ends of the earth.”

Mary made room for the child, Jesus, who would become the Christ and Elisabeth

welcomed his cousin John, the prophet who announced Messiah’s coming.

     In first century Palestine, life could be a challenge for anyone especially

those who were not Roman citizens. In Palestine, there was an atmosphere of

mistrust toward the occupying army, and these soldiers, governors, and tax

collectors were literally hated by the local residents. Only those in the upper class

of society could own land or hold political office. Everyone else worked for the

wealthy landowners causing most people to live at a subsistence level, constantly

in danger of hunger. Many of these workers did not have steady work, but hired

themselves out for a daily wage.

     In Luke’s story, Mary and Elizabeth are heroines because of their faith and

humility and their willingness to do their part to usher in God’s kingdom. Since

women were very restricted in what they could do, it is especially important to note

how seriously these women take their roles in the prophetic work they have been

asked to undertake. When Mary enters Elisabeth’s house, Elisabeth says (1:43),

"And why is this granted to me that the mother of my Lord would come to me?" At

that point, the baby in Elisabeth’s womb gives his mother a good stiff kick! This

experience of the baby leaping in Elisabeth’s womb is a visceral reminder that God

is present in each of us and through the Holy Spirit connects us to both God and

our human community.

     Recently I discovered the teacher, author, and speaker Brenè Brown,  who has spent the past

thirteen years studying vulnerability, courage, worthiness, and shame. In The Gifts of

Imperfection her comments about courage sum up the relationship that Mary and

Elisabeth had with each other. She says, “Practice courage and reach out! We have

to own our story and share it with someone who has earned the right to hear it,

someone that we can count on to respond with compassion. We need courage,

compassion, and connection—right now! Mary and Elisabeth model those three

“C’s” for us in the story of The Visitation.

      Perhaps you’ve had that experience of your own child kicking you, or

you’ve had a family member or friend take your hand and place it on her abdomen

when the baby is kicking. Elisabeth says, “As soon as I heard the sound of your

greeting the child in my womb leaped for joy.” Already there is recognition of the

divine nature of Mary’s child and of the mission that will take Jesus from a lowly

birth to a humiliating death.  And Mary says (1:48): "The Lord has regarded the

low estate of his handmaiden." Both women—even though selected for a history

changing purpose—acknowledge their lowly estate before Almighty God.

     What follows this brief story of Mary’s visitation to Elisabeth is Mary’s

Song or The Magnificat. It begins with

“My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord, and my

Spirit rejoices in God my Savior for he has looked with

favor on the lowliness of his servant.”

     In this short poem that praises God for the work he is doing through Mary,

we hear about the hungry, the poor, the class system, the treatment of women,

institutional religion, culture and local and world politics. But remember, God is

about to turn the world of First Century Palestine upside down. Elisabeth’s son,

John, is coming to prepare the way by calling people to repentance, and Mary’s

son, Jesus, is coming to spread the message of God’s love.

     Mary’s song of praise talks about a people who have feared God “from one

generation to another” and the God who has done amazing acts for his people. God

is strong and rejects the proud thoughts of those who would rely only on their own

strength. God is the ruler of all and has brought down the powerful from their

thrones. He has lifted up the lowly. God is on the side of the powerless.

     Here, I am reminded of stories of the Old Testament figure Joseph who was

sold into slavery only to be in Egypt at a time when his family so desperately

needed him to help them survive. When famine drove the sons of Jacob (Israel) to

seek food in Egypt, it was their brother Joseph who made sure they received

enough food for their family. God used Joseph to help his family, and eventually to

restore them to one another. God helps the lowly and the poor, and God provides

food for the hungry. Most of all, though, God is merciful.

     What strikes me as so important about Mary’s story and her song of praise is

that the Good News is for everybody who is on the underside; for everybody who

is on the outside; for everybody who is lost and feels unworthy. This news is

revolutionary news! And the basis of this revolution is love.

     Today, we are called to take that good news to everyone: to the

downtrodden, to the unemployed and the poor, to those working for less than an

appropriate wage, and to those who face the raw, dark moments of life. We are

called to practice compassion—the kind of compassion that Mary and Elisabeth

had for each other. Mary was blessed because she allowed grace and mercy to flow

around and through her, and we must be open to the same Godly grace and mercy

that heals us and sends us forth with our wounds bound up in order for us to share

the Good News with those who “wait in darkness.” My point is, and here I return

to the Collect of the Day, is that God is with us every day, and that we are God’s

home here in this world. The Collect says Purify our conscience, Almighty God, by

your daily visitation that your Son Jesus Christ, at his coming, may find in us a

mansion prepared for himself. God’s Spirit resides within to empower us to do the

work of spreading the Good News because we surely cannot do this work in our

own strength or on our own merits.

     In just a few days, we will celebrate the birth of the baby that Mary carried

in her womb, and that John the Baptist recognized while he was still in his own

mother’s womb. I encourage you to take time to quietly reflect on the events that

unfold this week, and as you ponder the upcoming holy days, ask yourself, “How

long has it been since you felt the babe leap for joy.”

A Little Less Ego

Sermon for Sunday, August 9, 2015

“A Little Less Ego”

United Church of Christ, Clemson, SC

Mark 10:17-22

In the early part of the 20^th Century—as well as many, many years before—both men and women would give up their ordinary, normal lives in the world to enter monastic communities. This decision was a radical departure for some people like Thomas Merton while for others like Mother Teresa, it was a natural flowing of love into contemplative action. After a rambunctious youth and adolescence, Merton entered Gethsemane Abbey, a Trappist Monastery in Kentucky, and the strictest religious orders in the Catholic Church, and arguably became the most influential American Catholic author of the twentieth century. Referring to race and peace as the two most urgent issues of our time, Merton was a strong supporter of the nonviolent civil rights movement, which he called "certainly the greatest example of Christian faith in action in the social history of the United States." For his social activism Merton endured severe criticism, from Catholics and non-Catholics alike, who assailed his political writings as unbecoming of a monk.

The other memorable contemplative activist of our time, Mother Teresa, went to the streets to help the poor of Calcutta. Like Merton, her work was not without criticism, but she developed a number of communities over the years of her vocation which still work to help the poor throughout the world; work which, I believe is the result of her contemplative life. In the Gospel for today, Jesus is busy blessing and healing when he encounters a rich man who asks him a question. I believe we can make an important connection between the work of contemplative activism and this story of the rich man.

Can you visualize this scene? In the previous passage, Jesus has been blessing the children—one of those lovely acts that shows us his compassion and wisdom. And now Jesus is setting out on a journey, but a man runs up and kneels before him. The man—perhaps a young man; perhaps even the son of someone in the crowd—kneels there and asks Jesus how he can earn eternal life.

And, so, Jesus recites the Commandments—the bedrock of Judaism—to him but the rich man (perhaps impatiently) tells Jesus, “Yes, yes, I know these Commandments. I’ve followed them from the time I could understand what it meant to obey God.”  But then, Jesus spells out the demands for the rich man that the man cannot fathom. Jesus tells him that the riches he has accumulated in his life are in the way of his entering the Kingdom of God. You see, the rich man thought that he could own all his possessions without any responsibility to anyone but God. If he just knew what God demanded, he would have eternal life. But Jesus effectively exposes the misperceptions and counterfeits of following rules that have shaped the faith of the rich man.

Jesus, however, does not leave him hanging, but perhaps, in retrospect, the rich man would have preferred uncertainty instead of the answer that he received. Jesus tells him, “Sell what you own, and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow me.”

Now, this Gospel lesson actually comes in the Revised Common Lectionary in October, which in my Episcopal tradition is known as “stewardship season.” However, I think there is so much more here than what we do with personal wealth. What Jesus is asking the rich man is to embrace a change of perspective along with changing his behavior in a way that is both radical and difficult. Could you do it? Could I? And, if we could do it, what would that stance look like?

Over the past couple of years, I have had the privilege of becoming a member of The Northumbria Community, a new monasticism group based in, of all places, Northumbria, United Kingdom. Last summer my husband and I made a journey there, and I made my vows as a Companion in the Community. The Northumbria Community is a dispersed community, much like the Iona Community in Scotland. Companions live all over the world, but there is also a Mother House which is lovingly referred to as The Nether Springs.

The Northumbria Community does not own the property on which the Mother House sits. There is a house team that volunteers to run The Nether Springs, and some stay there for six months, some stay for a year or two and some stay for longer. Their only “salary” is room and board. In addition, each new Companion is expected to volunteer for one week during his or her first year in Community. People come from all over the world to make retreats at the Mother House and to take some quiet time for reflection and rest. Those of us who are Companions ascribe to a Rule of vulnerability and availability, promise to say the Daily Office, and to live the heretical imperative. Of course, no one in the Community has the Rule down to a science, and, in fact, those who have worked the Rule for a while say it’s a messy process. The people living at The Nether Springs practice a common life where they say the Office together, eat together, wash dishes together, and even change sheets in the guest rooms together. 

The rich man in today’s Gospel followed the Commandments, the letter of the law, but he was distracted by his wealth. Jesus goes on to say in the passage that follows that it is harder for a rich man to enter heaven than for a camel to go through the eye of a needle. It’s not the wealth that is the problem, but rather one’s attitude toward possessions that make it difficult to “be saved.”

I tell you this background on The Community because we have embraced that absolute trust that comes from living from our contemplative center. The reason the Community now resides at Acton Home Farm is because the owner of Heaton Hall where they previously resided gave them notice, and they had to move out rather immediately. The same day of the notice, the invitation came from the owner of Acton. He told the overseers that he had some property, and he wondered if the Community might be able to do something with it. As it turns out, after some refurbishing, it has made a wonderful retreat center with a home-like atmosphere—complete with the comforting lowing of cattle.

To put it another way, listen to this story from Everything Belongs by Richard Rohr.

“Less than a block from where I used to live in downtown Albuquerque there is a sidewalk where the homeless often sit against the wall to catch the winter sun. Once I saw a fresh graffiti chalked clearly on the pavement. It touched me so profoundly that I immediately went home and wrote it in my journal. It said, “I watch how foolishly man guards his nothing—thereby keeping us out. Truly, God is hated here.” I can only imagine what kind of life experience enabled this person to write in such a cutting but truthful way. I understood anew why Jesus seemed to think that the expelled ones had a head start in understanding his message. Usually they have been expelled from what was unreal anyway—the imperial systems of culture, which demand “in” people and “out” people, victors and victims. In God’s reign “everything belongs,” even the broken and poor parts. Until we have admitted this in our own soul, we will usually perpetuate expelling systems in the outer world of politics and class. Dualistic thinking begins in the soul and moves to the mind and eventually moves to the streets. True prayer, however, nips the lie in the bud. It is usually experienced as tears, surrender, or forgiveness.”

Rohr goes on to say, “Living in this consumer-driven world, we are often infected by what some call “affluenza,” a toxic and blinding disease which makes it even more difficult for us to break through to the center. Our skin-encapsulated egos are the only self that most of us know, and this is where we usually get trapped. …Most of us have to be taught how to see; true seeing is the heart of spirituality today.”

This past week, I spent five days at Mepkin Abbey in Moncks Corner on retreat. I had not been to Mepkin in several years, and it was very comforting and challenging to return to a place I had frequented for a number of years. One of the monks, Fr. Christian, had recently passed over to the other side, and I found myself missing his mischievous grin. Once when preaching, Fr. Christian used the term “Thy ‘Thingdom’ Come.” This phrase has stayed with me all these years as the defining point of how our possessions can and do own us.

So, what does Jesus offer the rich man? Nowhere else is his distaste of wealth more stark, except perhaps in the story of the money changers in the Temple. Jesus wants us to realize it’s not about the “bottom line,” the THINGDOM, but rather it is about the sacred in life—and everything is sacred—even the homeless man under the bridge—when we look on life in love.

“Human existence is neither perfectly consistent (as rational and control-needy people usually demand it be), nor is it incoherent chaos (what cynics, agnostics, and unaware people expect it to be); instead, St. Bonaventure claims human life has a cruciform pattern. It is a “coincidence of opposites,” a collision of cross-purposes; we are all filled with contradictions needing to be reconciled.

And that is what Jesus was trying to tell the rich man. His outer life was overwhelmed with the chaos of wealth. His inner life was a mess because while he followed the rules, he had no real experience of God at the center. The rich man wanted eternal life, but he was not willing to let go of the very things that stood in his way!

So, what is the task before us when we consider what Jesus says to the rich man? He asked the rich man to give up his wealth—to sell his possessions and give to the poor. For us, Jesus may be asking that we give up our attachment to consumerism, racism, ageism, or chauvinism. Maybe he is asking us to give up our judgmental distaste or fear of others who hang onto those “isms” because they need to keep others in their places in order to make sense of their own lives.

The most telling line in this Gospel passage is “Jesus looked on him and loved him.” In speculating why this line seems so poignant to me, I discovered that there are a limited number of concepts in today’s spirituality that make good sense to me. Living in the present moment is certainly one of them. Stop judging is another one. Having a little less focus on ego, however, opens the door to the most important teaching which has been around from the very beginning. We are told to love. In the story of the rich man, Jesus does what he tells us to do. We are to look on others with love. We are also told to look on ourselves with love.  When we do this, we become the Christ; we have done as Jesus did. When we do as Jesus did—when we move beyond our comfort zone—we experience conversion. We cannot look on the hungry with love unless we go to the hungry; we cannot look on the homeless with love unless we go to the homeless; nor can we look on the broken in love unless we go to the broken. That movement takes a lot of letting go, and as Richard Rohr reminds us “all great spirituality is about letting go.” And when we let go, we are allowing a transformative experience to occur. Love is transforming us into love itself” (James Finley quoted in Richard Rohr). When we understand what Jesus asked of the rich man—and what Jesus asks of us—we can affirm with Mother Teresa, “It’s not how much we give, but how much love we put in the giving.”

Amen.

"Observe how the lilies of the field grow; they do not toil nor do they spin, yet I say to you that not even Solomon in all his glory clothed himself like one of these."

These June mornings are so much warmer than I would like them to be. I arose at 6:30 this morning to let the dogs out, slipped on my clothes, and sat on the patio where I read morning prayer. All the while, I was looking at the lilies in my garden and thinking about how nice the newly-mown grass looks. Today, I'm in flux between healing from a surgical procedure and wanting to get on with my summer tasks, but I find myself lacking the energy I usually have. Before I realize it, the weeks will have flown by, and it will be time to begin yet another academic year, one that holds much in the way of change and new adventures. But today, I sit and ponder the lilies.

Those lilies have a lot to teach me. Jesus was such a wise teacher, and every time I come to understand another idea that he wants his disciples to "get," I realize how blessed I am to see with the eyes of Spirit. Today, I want to be a lily, not toiling or doing "stuff" for the sake of doing it. All that does is add to the weary factor and the idea that I must be productive or I am not worthy.

But "worthy of what?" I ask myself. Why is it that life must be so full and crammed with stuff to do? I believe life offers us two approaches to doing, doing, and doing. There are those who give time and energy to tasks because they want to contribute a meaningful effort to the betterment of the world. Others do just to be doing. We find tasks to keep us busy when what we may really need is to sit in silence and admire the lilies and the green grass. 

Of course, when we fill our lives with so much doing, we are feeding our Shadow. Perhaps our productivity can lead to golden shadow--when good comes out of the negative aspects of life--but why should we wear ourselves out? Aren't we worth so much more than that? Aren't we worth the time and energy and beauty that the lilies show us? They neither toil, nor spin, and yet, they are so lovely to behold.

Sit a while today. Enjoy the blue sky, the birdsong, the color in a garden. Soak up the wonders of creation and give yourself permission to not rush off to commitments that drain us dry. Lilies neither toil not spin, and yet...

A Day in the Life of a Fisherwoman

Sitting on the polished oak floor perched on a pillow near the ceiling-high window in Brenda’s meditation area I watch her as she picks her way along the rocky path to the beach. She has a white drawstring plastic trash bag in her hand, which we have just spent the last 30-45 minutes loading with salmon chum. Brenda is wearing her orange hooded slicker as she descends the pathway from her yard to the remote, rocky, rain-soaked waterfront. I watch her from above—like the birds to which she offers food, their Eucharistic table set on stones that once might have satisfied a temptation of hunger. The ravens begin to caw and crows gather. She feeds eagles. Brenda says,

“People say you shouldn't feed eagles. But all the wild animals—eagles, bears—are so habituated around here that I have no remorse about feeding these birds. Especially in winter and spring when they’re hungry. Besides, I don’t want to lose our resident pair.”

She dumps the fish chum—renderings from our afternoon catch—on the rocks. Then she calls in a high shrill voice, an imitation of the eagle’s cry, to let them know she has left them a gift. In no time at all several kinds of midnight blue-black fowl descend on the fish renderings, but the only eagle to appear—a large beautiful one with a gorgeous white spread of tail feathers—flies over from the stretch of beach in front of the neighbor’s house. Brenda suspects Johnson has just put some halibut leftovers out, since there was a large gathering of birds there. The eagles do not seem interested, so the little folk get to feast instead.

Now we gather the fish and place most of the catch into recycled grocery bags so that I can take it home with me. I am amazed at how little repulsion I feel from the events of the day: from catching the Silver Salmon, to watching Brenda whack it on the head with a wooden club, to gutting it on the boat, to filleting the entire catch in her kitchen. Now that I've caught my first salmon and have eaten some of that very same fish, I believe I have come to understand Brenda more and more—both her passion for fishing and her life as solitary and scholar.

People in Alaska have a special relationship with the salmon. Today, I have born witness to the sacrifice of salmon, a sacrifice that in Brenda’s words “remind[s] us that the life of God permeates all creation, that we must be humble before it, serve and preserve it, because the principle that underlies the cosmos is one of sacrifice and sacrifice that is not annihilation but fulfillment.  The sacrifice to which we are called is to embrace our mortality, creating a density through which the spaciousness of salvation is brought into being.  Or, mortality becomes like the framework of a sonnet that causes our creativity to burgeon and flower into spaciousness beyond its narrow gate, a spaciousness that enhances lives that follow.”

Earlier that day, Brenda and I sailed out on The Sister Act heading out into the Bay slowly at first, then picking up speed once we’re out of the harbor. I watch her carefully trying to anticipate when she needs me to do something and when she simply needs me to move out of the way. Like centuries of people who have gone to visit hermits for advice and training, I wait and watch. When young monks went to the desert, they simply went into the cell of another monk, usually a cave, and imitated what the desert father did. One such monk was Saint Anthony of the Desert, who gave up a life of privilege to devote himself to God. Brenda has honed and focused her life, giving up prestige, family, a worldly career, and a position of power in the church—all of which could have been hers had she been willing to sell short her call to be alone in prayer.

On the boat, she asks me,

“So what have you learned about solitaries?”

“I suppose the most important thing I've learned is that there are no rules for this vocation. That there are as many kinds of solitary vocations as there are solitaries.”

“True but I’d add that a solitary is solitary first of all. One does not join groups. But, yes, each solitary vocation is unique; that’s why it’s solitary.”

And after a brief pause, she adds vehemently, “The solitary life is about giving up all crutches. Forgive me is I sound fed up; I am.”

Brenda tells me, “The psychoanalyst Gregory Zilborg very much got under Thomas Merton's skin when he told him that he wanted to be a hermit by an interstate highway with a neon sign saying ‘hermit’ over the door.”

The more we talk the more questions I seem to have, and I become convinced that when I leave Juneau and have talked with her on these several occasions that what I will most likely come away with the understanding is that the eremitical, solitary life really cannot be pinned down.

Brenda, as a solitary, is fulfilling the natural course that all of us must follow.

“The solitary life is worn both very lightly and deadly, deathly seriously. It's hidden; the reality of it is not talked about much. These days, everyone wants to be a spiritual celebrity.”

Perhaps, I have discovered that I've been asking the wrong question. In listening carefully to what she has to say about the vocation, I have come to sense that everyone is a solitary. Just as every salmon has at the heart of its life a passion to return to the place of its birth, so every person is a solitary experiencing the universal condition of solitude. Solitaries simply witness to that condition by embracing it and saying, “It's okay; don't be afraid; take your part in the spiritual struggle with principalities and powers.”

Yet somehow I just know that Brenda would say this idea is wrong, too. Like John the Solitary, a monk of the 4^th century, she would say,

How long shall I be in the world of the voice

and not in the world of the word?

For everything that is seen is voice

and is spoken with the voice

But in the invisible world there is no voice

For not even voice can utter its mystery

How long shall I be voice and not silence?

When shall I depart from the voice

No longer remaining in things which the voice proclaims

When shall I become word

In an awareness of hidden things

When shall I be raised up to silence
To something which neither voice nor word can bring?

When I push Brenda to explain her understanding of this idea, she says,

“The category we make of ‘solitary’ is an artificial one, and, I think, inapplicable. In fact, it is contradictory because the solitary life points away from itself; it is kenotic. It is the same mistake we make when we say ‘spirituality’ is the same as the search for God.”

Brenda reminds me of Simone Weil who is perhaps the greatest 20^th Century writer on this subject. Such a person won't even ask herself what her ‘spirituality’ is, or use God-language and maybe won't even think of it as a search for God. There are a lot of novelists who understand this far better than church people.”

Brenda and I have reached Paradise Island by now where she intends to troll for salmon. She caught three this morning and they are on the boat in a burlap sack under a bag of ice. She sets the kicker, the smaller engine, in the water, and turns off the large Suzuki outboard. She tells me to take the wheel and keep the depth at around 117. She is determined to make a boatwoman out of me yet.

She baits the hook and sets it to the downrigger. Then we sit and wait. There’s a sense of anticipation and on more than one occasion one or the other of us says, “Here fishy, fishy…”—as if the Silvers or Kings will listen and take the bait.

Soon the waves pick up and the current roughens, but on the monitor, we both notice large bait balls. Brenda tells me to point the boat toward the shore until I reach a depth of 100 feet. We continue to troll, and she takes the wheel. Several minutes later, a thump followed by a “swoosh,” and the scream of the reel, rouses us from our reverie. “A fish!” Brenda proclaims.

She detaches the reel from the downrigger, and I say, “Are you sure you don’t want me to watch you pull the first one in?”

Her adamant reply is, “No, you’re going to catch this fish!”

I put the end of the reel in my belly for balance, and then begin to reel in the fish. We don’t know if it’s a King or a Coho, but I reel steadily as the salmon struggles to free itself of the hook. Finally, I pull it close to the surface, and Brenda says,

“Now bring it over to this side of the boat so we can get it into the net.”

I pull the reel around and guide the fish into the net that Brenda is holding. I think to myself, “How in the world does she do this alone…especially when she’s pulling in a King?” But the thought quickly evaporates as I pull the reel and fish up over the boat along with the net. Brenda takes the hook out of the fish, and I move the reel to one side while she reaches for a small wooden club. “Now, I’ve got to subdue this fish.” I watch, nonplussed, to say the least, but noting that I’m not queasy and in fact, rather accept the fate of the fish as something that just has to be done.

Brenda tells me to go back to the wheel and make sure we’re not getting in too shallow water, and I do. I correct our course, and prepare to turn the boat since we are getting a little closer to the shore than I like. She comes in the cabin, takes a look at things, then tells me to aim for the tip of the island and keep it steady while she cleans the fish.

My first catch is a female, and she weighs about ten pounds—not huge by most standards, but certainly larger than anything I've caught so far in my life. Brenda adds the fish to the burlap sack and places the ice back on top. Our excitement subsides, but the wind and tides do not.

Brenda proclaims, “We had better go in now. The tide is getting unmanageable, and I don’t want to get stuck out here.”

“No, I think, let’s not get stuck on Auke Bay.”

We begin our return trip, and I continue to steer as she changes engines. “There’s going to be a little kick as I change the engines over. Just be aware of that. This helps clean out the carburetor.”

When she finally takes the wheel, I’m more than ready to give it to her. I stand in the middle of the boat and we are silent on the way in. When we get to the harbor, we chat about other boats that are there, and then she starts giving me instructions about what to do as she puts the boat into the slip. She has a perfect landing—something she always is apologetic about when we begin—and I tell her, “I’m impressed!”

Once we’re tied down, I go up the ramp and bring a wheelbarrow down to haul our catch and the trash up to the car and dumpster. We have about seventy pounds of fish in the burlap sack. When I get back, Brenda gives me the reel to wash, and I take it like I've been doing this chore for years. I bring it back to her clean of any debris, and then lift the wheelbarrow to take back up the ramp and she follows along shortly.

Now we go to her house to fillet the salmon. I am getting weary, and I know she must be also since our trip together was the second one out for her today. We quickly set up the space in her kitchen with newspapers and knives and before long, she is cutting the fish while I hold the trash bag and then switch to freezer bags when the fillets are cut into steaks. I observe more of the process than I participate in, but I know I am witness to something sacred: I have plunged into mystery, my hands slick with “fishness.”

We finish our chore and she goes out to feed the eagles. The day with Brenda ends as abruptly as it began. She helps me gather bags of fish which I take home to put in Sandy and Renee’s large refrigerator. The three of us take out several pieces of salmon and cook them on the stove top and sit at the table enjoying the fresh fish. We celebrate our friendship with each other, Brenda’s generosity, and the life of the salmon.

Sermon for Lent IV

Year B Lent IV, March 15, 2015

Numbers 21:4-9; Psalm 107:1-3, 17-22; Ephesians 2:1-10; John 3:14-21

          Prayer: Let us pray. Lord, open our hearts that we may hear your Word. Give us grace to journey with you through the remainder of this Lenten season and into Holy Week, and bring us to the glorious celebration of your Resurrection. In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

          I cannot begin to imagine the Israelites’ horror when the snakes came. I grew up in the South Carolina Low Country, and I have experienced many times when I have thought “the only good snake is a dead snake.” Maybe some of you think that snakes are okay, and as long as they are at a safe distance, like behind the glass in a zoo, I have to admit that some can be mysteriously beautiful. To the Israelites, however, the snakes meant painful, poisonous bites and physical death.

          The snakes came because the Israelites were grumbling against God and Moses. So, here are a people who have left the only home they have ever known to follow a man to some place called the Promised Land. Like most humans, they got hungry and thirsty and weary, and when they did, God provided for them. Yet, what God provided did not seem good enough; in fact, they found the manna rather disgusting. They complained that it would have been better for them to have stayed in Egypt as slaves. After all, they had been on this journey for close to forty years, more or less, and it seemed high time to do something besides wander in the desert heat on hot sand from one place to another. But their complaints brought unexpected consequences when “the LORD sent poisonous serpents among the people, and they bit the people, so that many Israelites died.” Once again, however, God provided a way out for his people by having Moses make a bronze serpent and place it on a pole so that all who were bitten might look at the serpent and live.

          Whether we want to take this story literally or see it as an allegory, I think the snakes can readily symbolize our conscience when we are confronted with our bad behavior. In Shakespeare’s play, Hamlet, Act four, Hamlet and Horatio are talking about what happened once Hamlet left with Rosencrantz and Guildenstern for England. Hamlet describes how he took King Claudius’s letter that commanded England to behead him on his arrival, and rewrote it to say that Rosencrantz and Guildenstern should die. Horatio’s response is “What king is this?” Here we have God sending snakes to bite and kill his chosen people, and I want to say, “What God is this?” If biting, fiery snakes seems a little over the top to us, then perhaps we should remember that the people had complained before; that’s why they were getting manna to eat. These are the same people who refused to enter the Promised Land when God was ready to take them there because they were afraid. Suzanna Metz says, “Our passage from Numbers talks about a real fear of bodily harm – a fear of death in a natural way. Yet, underneath that natural fear was the darkness brought on them by cursing God. It was their sin of not believing that God would keep the promise of bringing them to a land of milk and honey” (Metz, Suzanna). “Though the people of Israel are unhappy with Moses and God, the one thing that is never in doubt is God’s presence among the people. When the people complain against God, the Lord hears. When the people repent, God hears and responds with healing and relief from suffering”. God instructs Moses to make a serpent of bronze and put it on a pole which he lifts up in front of the people. If they are bitten and look at the bronze snake, they will live. If not, they will die.

          Now let’s move to John’s Gospel where Jesus tells us that God sent his only son to save the world. John 3:16 may be the best known verse in Holy Scripture. Unlike the snakes in Numbers, John tells us that Jesus came to love us, and to show us by his own example how to treat others. Have you noticed in your reading of Scripture how Jesus is so rarely interested in the sins that others are accused of? For instance, think for a moment about the woman caught in adultery. Jesus tells the religious men gathered there “Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.” When asked whether the blind man sinned or if his parents sinned, Jesus tells the disciples ³ “Neither this man nor his parents sinned, “but this happened so that the works of God might be displayed in him. ⁴ As long as it is day, we must do the works of him who sent me. Night is coming, when no one can work. ⁵ While I am in the world, I am the light of the world.”  

          For John, light and darkness are really important metaphors. People who live in darkness practice evil. People who live in the light are different. Most of us would not choose to live in darkness, but we read in John 1:10-11, “He was in the world, and though the world was made through him, the world did not recognize him. He came to that which was his own, but his own did not receive him.” When Jesus came to live among us, he came to gain new life for us. Jesus did not come to condemn us, but to offer the path to salvation. Yet, we all choose to enter that darkness of sin from time to time.

          In fact, we are all capable of doing some pretty appalling things to others. It’s those appalling things that we need to take stock of most especially in Lent. This season is not so much  about giving up or adding something more to our spiritual disciplines, but is rather a time to take a look at the darkness. Lent gives us the opportunity to hear that we are loved, that we can walk in the light of that love, and that we can be different. I think with Dr. Tara Brach, author of Nourishing Loving Relationships, that “At the end of our lives, as we look back, “what will most matter will be the moments of loving presence in our relationships.” All we need do is take a look at how God loves us. God gave us Jesus, the Son, who served others and sacrificed himself on the cross. Jesus showed us availability and vulnerability in his being lifted up so that we could see what genuine love is. “So here we learn something important about the nature of true love. Some people think they love others because of what those people do for them or how they make them feel. But God shows us that true love has nothing to do with what you can do for me, but everything to do with what I can do for you.”

          God gave us everything when he sent Jesus. When we give out of our abundance, we hardly miss what we’ve given, but when we give all we have, like the widow with her copper coins, then we are more likely to understand just how much God loves us. As Teresa of Avila said, “The important thing is not to think much, but to love much; and so do that which best stirs you to love.”

Works Cited

http://episcopaldigitalnetwork.com/stw/2012/02/26/4-lent-b-march-18-2012/

http://episcopaldigitalnetwork.com/stw/2015/02/20/bible-study-4-lent-b/)

O Thou, The Beyond of All

I was momentarily caught up in a Facebook post yesterday about the “crisis” of young people leaving the church. The Acts 8 Movement posted a blog to the effect that change (especially fast change) is a bad thing because the author believes young people will return to the church later in life, and when they do, they will want the familiar setting that they grew up in. What I took that to mean is that they will want TRADITION. The consequences of changing the scared liturgy in an attempt to draw people in could backfire, theoretically, by driving others out. The banter around the subject included one person’s adamant insight that “God hates guitar music” which raises a related thread of theological debate, and also helps me focus on my question. Here, then, is the conundrum of the institutional church. Exactly who is it, or perhaps, WHAT is it that we worship?

For a number of years, I directed a spirituality center for my parish. Part of the mission of this center was to provide “teachable moments” for people who were seeking a deeper relationship with the Holy. We offered the run of the mill quiet days and retreats, but we also had a dream group, and offered one-on-one spiritual direction. Most people who come to church want to get “it” right—this worship thing. They, however, do not realize that spirituality is basically one’s faith practice, and that attending church is only a part, at most, of the “works” part of our call to be Christ in the world. We also are called to feed hungry people and visit those who are sick and in prison. Additionally, there will always be a certain number of people in the pews on Sunday who come from a sense of duty or social obligation, though I’d dare say that number is shrinking simply because guilt no longer pervades our society in the same manner it once did.

So what is it that we worship? In my parish, we have a beautiful liturgy that follows Rite II of The Book of Common Prayer. We have a gifted organist/choir master who provides music that is uplifting and inviting. These parts of the church service are merely props, however, to the experience of worship. They are tools that we use to enter the Holy of Holies and to encounter the numinous. In many ways, the liturgy is the backdrop for what happens as our spirits commune with God. It can, though, become just rote words spoken without much conviction if one does not pay attention to the whole dramatic pageant happening in the communion of saints going on in a particular congregational setting.

That sense of communion or belonging is why being attentive during worship is so important (and rewarding). Spirituality does not come “naturally.” The door may be opened at our baptism, and the desire planted by the time we are confirmed, but we must do the work to grow to full spiritual maturity. And just why is it that the Church is so desperate to have a full contingent of young adults? Prodigality in one’s twenties or thirties may not be such a bad thing.

Yet, the liturgy is an important part of what it is we Christians participate in week after week. It is the work we do, and is the heart of our faith. When it moves beyond the mere recitation of creed and allows us to celebrate the mystery of the life of the Christ, it is a transfiguring experience. When we walk in the light spoken of in John’s Gospel, we become luminous just as the prophets did at Christ’s Transfiguration. That’s why the beauty of the liturgy works; it pulls us in like the moon tugging on the ocean tide to the place of glory. This beauty is really only possible when one is swept up in tenderness, awe, goodness, and love.

How, then, does one go about experiencing this moment of holiness? I would argue that it can only be experienced in mysterious silence. How clever is it that God gives this oxymoron, Word and Silence, as the chief means of entering into God’s luminous, holy presence. In his little book, The Silent Roots, K.M. George introduces the idea of iconosophia, the wisdom of the icons. He says, “an openness and Spirit-inspired ability to image God in the infinity of God’s own compassionate love, tenderness, goodness and freedom, and not in the image of our own distorted selves and institutional hierarchies. That God image comes to us in the silence of prayer and worship. As Bonhoeffer said, “The Word comes not to the chatterer but to him who holds his tongue. The stillness of the temple is the sign of the holy presence of God in His Word” (Life Together).

This silence that we seek, the silence that allows us to wait for the coming of God’s Word, comes only through practice. It is a spiritual practice that brings great blessing. Again, Bonhoeffer tells us that “The silence of the Christian is listening silence, humble stillness... It is silence in conjunction with the Word.” The God who meets us in this silence is a God of love and love alone. Br. Roger of Taize put it this way, “Remember this once and for all: God never imposes himself by dictates and threats. Christ never wishes anyone to suffer torment. If, for you, a life in God were to mean being afraid of God, you should think again.” Finally, I believe that Jesus came to transfigure every part of our being and that our life is a pilgrimage toward that transformation. It is in that silent prayer in the silent presence that the Word is born in our heart.